


All I Need is the Air that I Breathe--

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:28:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9997733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Originally published in the Bistocon 2016 zine. Missing Scene for Man Without a Past. Doyle's suffering and waiting for his partner.





	

All I Need is the Air That I Breathe  
By  
Dawnwind

 _\--And to love you~_ The Hollies

Missing scene from The Man Without a Past

He waited. There was nothing else he could do but dredge up patience from some inner source and cultivate it, the way a Boy Scout coaxes a tiny flame he’s created by rubbing flint and steel together. An intake of breath, sustaining oxygen for both human and fire, then a puff. The flame brightens, bringing heat and hope.

Waiting presumed a resolution, something to attain with persistence. Unfortunately, nurturing patience was not his forte.

Doyle inhaled again, ignoring the pain from undoubtedly cracked, if not broken ribs, and breathed out. Had a temper, he did. From his mother’s side of the family. Eilish McCourt Doyle could cut you to the quick with the side of her tongue all the while making porridge. Her children knew to steer clear of her when her eyes burned green.

Raymond McCourt Doyle, her only son, had her fire, her intensity. And that bloody propensity to be a stroppy, short tempered git. He could not deny the truth. Felt the growing fire burning in his guts, extinguishing the serenity he’d courted. He simply wasn’t a patient person.

His first instinct was always to devise out a solution and jump in, feet first. 

Difficult to do when he’d been hit by a car and tossed about like a football. Doyle twisted his wrists, wincing at the rasp of rope on fragile skin. Didn’t have to see his arms to know the flesh was scraped and bleeding. No need to dwell on that—focus on what he could change. On what he had at his disposal.

Sod-all. Very little could be accomplished in his condition. And yet—his stubborn disposition was unquenchable. He’d do something or die trying. Gathering the energy when he hurt all over was the most difficult part.

No-one knew where he was. He mentally traced his own steps back to the last place he’d been. Pendle’s sister’s flat. He’d chased that bleeding sod out behind the building and—the car coming toward him had nearly blanked out any rational thought. No memories of anything after. With one exception—the pain of three thousand pounds of metal slamming into his body. 

Waking up to Arthur Bloody Pendle staring at him had been enough to send him back into unconsciousness. Moving on, past that. What could he do, here trussed up like a damned turkey readied for the Christmas feast?

He needed Bodie. _Really._

This wasn’t a job for one.

_Bodie didn’t know where he was._

Doyle didn’t know where he was, beyond the obvious—a bedroom: four walls, a bed and chest of drawers. Logic dictated that he was still in London. Unless he’d been unconscious longer than he thought. His brain felt like a scrambled egg, but he could see light coming through the curtains. Still day. Assumedly the same day he went to see Sally Pendle.

_Good._

That was firmly established.

London was a big place. Mazes of streets. Miles upon miles of paved roads. Taxi cab drivers had to take exams to memorise every little close and lane. Where would Bodie start? 

Doyle had to believe. That was almost more difficult than dredging up patience. It wasn’t that Doyle didn’t believe in his partner, he did. But Bodie was dealing with a lot. Claire Sheldon had been badly injured in the bombing and Bodie was hurting. Not from any injury, but the heavy guilt that he’d been the cause of her pain. Bodie was like that—he put up a casual, even callous front, while underneath, he agonised. 

Was he even aware that Doyle had gone off on a tangent to find the Pendles? Where he’d either hit gold, metaphorically speaking, or been caught up in something else all together. 

Would Bodie even notice that Doyle hadn’t checked in with CI5?

_Doyle had to believe he would._

Belief was such a fragile thing—more difficult to coax into existence than that tiny flame. Part faith, not quite hope, grounded in trust.

Drawing in another breath that lanced pain across his chest and tightened the band of hurt, Doyle knew, without a doubt, that Bodie would come. He tendered that belief in his heart, layered with trust. It would happen. He had to wait.

There were still things he could do to kick the rescue into high gear. 

Doyle stared across the room at the telephone sitting innocuously on a small stand.

Salvation. 

Getting there would be the test of endurance. If Sir Edmund Hillary could climb Everest and Robert Peary could reach the North Pole, Raymond Doyle could crawl—tied hand and foot like a blasted chicken waiting for the pot—six feet across a room.

Moving hurt. _God,_ it hurt.

Doyle pushed himself through the agony where each movement, each breath stabbed intense pain into his chest, his shoulders, his belly. He whimpered, allowing himself that outlet, albeit softly as possible. 

Would not do to have Pendle hear. Would not do at all.

Finally, after what seemed like seven lifetimes in hell, he was directly below the phone. Only had to inch around to get his back to the small table, so that he could grasp the cord and pull it down.

_Only._

He was so God-dammed tired he could weep. But that flame heated his belly, kept him fighting, kept him alive. 

Life meant hope, hope meant Bodie.

He twisted, gasping for air that didn’t seem to want to settle into his lungs and curled his swollen fingers around the plastic cord. The phone came down with a jangle of bells that almost scared the shit of out him.

Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. 

Shaking, he located the rotator dial and inserted a finger into the small hole, dialing the familiar number from behind. Faster than he would have thought possible under the circumstances, he flipped over to press his mouth to the receiver. “C’mon, c’mon…” he whispered, praying that there was a sensible girl at the switchboard. Praying that his captors didn’t take this moment to come check on him.

“CI5, how many I direct your call?” a perky voice he didn’t quite recognise answered. 

“It's Doyle.” His heart was banging against his ribcage and his blood thundering in his ears. He almost couldn’t hear himself speak. _As long as she could._ As long as someone at CI5 could find him. 

“S'Ray Doyle. 4.5,” he said desperately, overriding anything she was trying to say. “Get a trace on this call. 4.5, Ray Doyle. Get a trace on this call!”

~~**~~

Bodie had come to his rescue. Doyle swallowed the tightness in the back of his throat, trying to gulp air without further smashing his ribs. He’d have been safe all the same if Murphy or McCabe came for him, but Doyle felt that trust—that hope—settle into him. He’d wanted Bodie, and Bodie came through.

Despite the odds.

All Doyle had to do was wait a bit longer in the destruction that had once been a tidy kitchen—and ring for an ambulance. He’d told Bodie he would. 

Stubborn, proud berk, he chided himself. As if he had any energy left whatsoever. 

Patience. _Ha._

More like fight to live another day. The only time he could dredge up an ounce of patience was on those long stake-outs with Bodie. Then he could sit, trading banter and jokes with his partner all bloody night.

No time like the present. Get to the phone—sure to be one in the lounge since Crabbe had pulled the cord out of the wall in the bedroom.

Doyle examined his blockade with a ragged sigh. By pulling the kitchen shelves down, he’d boxed himself in well and good. Had worked a treat to keep the baddies out, but without a lever, he wasn’t going to escape. He hurt too badly. All he wanted to do was sink to the floor and wait for Bodie to return.

Bugger waiting. It wasn’t in him.

Doyle glanced around the small room—surely there was something long and metal he could use to shore up the cabinet blocking the door. 

A gas cooker, no need of a fire poker.

A long handled spatula? Might do.

Reaching across the counter, Doyle knew the instant the jagged edge of one broken rib pierced the soft, curved flesh of his lung. Pain like nothing he’d ever felt locked his chest, stopping his breath as if he’d been garroted. 

_Couldn’t breathe._

Couldn’t think.

Bodie’s face flashed across his mind’s eye, one finger raised in mock disapproval. Bodie’d expect him to survive.

What would Bodie do if he died?

 _Life meant hope._ Hope meant Bodie would return.

Doyle resolved to live, if only to deny Bodie grief. A good enough reason.

He slid, braced against the cupboards, to the floor, bringing up a cloud of pepper from the lino. Doyle sneezed violently, air squeaking in and out of his labouring lungs. He tasted blood, panting, gasping for even a molecule of oxygen.

As a result of being hit by a car, what used to be an unconscious action, the push and pull of his lungs bringing air to the body, had once become a boring, but necessary agony to endure this afternoon. Now it seemed a vital, if unattainable goal. 

_Fuck waiting_. He needed to breathe.

Already his head felt dull, the lack of oxygen depriving his brain cells of vitality. He knew the signs of shock, of imminent death. He focussed on the lessons Dr Poole had drilled into them in one of those boring courses Cowley required his agents to take.

Safety first! Remain calm. 

That was out of the question for the immediate future. Getting air into his lungs was nigh on to impossible, and his heart was galloping, straining to survive. Felt like he was going to pass out.

What was the next thing?

Feet higher than the head. Get blood to the heart and brains.

_Now he was getting somewhere._

Where, he wasn’t quite sure. What was all this in aid of?

His mouth dry, Doyle concentrated. He’d had an agenda. What the hell was it?

Feet—something about his feet. Instinctively, Doyle went flat on the floor. He choked, gasping—blood was in his throat, he was sure of it, but weirdly his brain did achieve a glimpse at clarity.

Sod it—breathing or thinking. Which was the most important? He scrabbled his fingers along the lino, pepper digging into his palms, and heaved himself onto his right-- less painful-- side.

A pure, unadulterated waft of healing air rushed in, blasting away the fog. Damn, that was good, but only for a moment. The pain on his left side clamped his chest, insidiously bearing down, forcing him to clutch and heave for every tiny breath. He could feel fluid—bubbles-- gathering under his ribs, into his throat. Wet, awful, obliterating the space for good oxygen.

He hurt so badly.

With a new perspective on the kitchen, Doyle stared at the shelves angled across the doorway. He could see a sliver of wooden floor and the back of an upholstered chair. Was there space to crawl through? Find Bodie.

 _Fucking Bodie._ Where the bloody hell was he? Off following orders from that shit Cowley when he should be…

Doyle sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and slid a few inches across the well peppered floor. It was only the grit in his eyes—the damned pepper—that wetted his lashes and cheeks, yeah?

He wasn’t crying.

He didn’t miss Bodie like an arrow directly into his heart. He wasn’t giving up.

_He was not that bloody stupid._

He gained another couple inches and had to stop, listening to the squeaky, rasping gurgle of his own breathing. His heart throbbed in his ears, Ringo Starr’s drumming in the Beatles’ song, _Revolution._

Breath meant life.

Life meant Bodie.

He had to breathe. He couldn’t let his partner go without back-up. Too sodding stupid to die like this, trapped in an airless bubble going purplish and then lavender grey around the edges.

Just one more minute, yeah? One more. He had the patience to hang on, the hope to will Bodie back into the kitchen.

Doyle stretched his arm, fingers pressed onto the wooden floor, a very different texture than the cold lino. He forced an inhale that burned like fire in his chest and whimpered. Then heard a sound that wasn’t his own wretched gasping.

Footsteps. He could feel the vibrations along the floorboard through his fingers.

“Bo-die,” came out strangled and harsh, barely audible.

“Ray?” Bodie sounded dismayed, dropping down beside him. “What the hell happened?”

_He’d been heard._

Bodie was there. Doyle could barely see, couldn’t breathe, but this would work out, as their bloody obbos always did. “Didn’t r-ring…” he whispered, a pitiful, painful squeak past the obstructions in his chest. 

“Stupid git,” Bodie said roughly, placing one hand on the left side of Doyle’s chest.

Comforting warmth. 

“Can’t breathe?” Bodie asked swiftly. “Feels like you’re locked up inside?”

_How did he know?_

“Fish….tank p-pump,” Doyle ground out, because he had to. Had to connect. Had to prove that he’d had the patience to wait for his partner. _To live._

“Your lung is punctured,” Bodie assessed. “Got to let out the air—and the blood.” 

Doyle concentrated on breathing, vaguely aware that he was drowning. Fluid crept up his windpipe, cutting off all air, all vitality. He had only one thing left—Bodie. 

Bodie was his strength, his hold on life. He gripped tightly, fighting the overwhelming tide rising in his chest.

“Knew you wouldn’t call the ambulance, lazy sod,” Bodie complained, scrabbling around Doyle. Pepper scattered in his wake. “Did it for you, didn’t I? Can hear the siren, can’t I?” 

Doyle couldn’t track his partner’s ramblings, letting it wash over him in a familiar stream as he slowly sank under the surface of the water.

“Ray?” Bodie called from miles away. “Ray, stay with me, dammit, you miserable ingrate. Th’ambulance is coming.” Something shockingly cold replaced the warm hand Bodie had on Doyle’s chest.

Then--intense, bright pain yanked Doyle to full consciousness. He choked, coughed, crying and suddenly, as if a magician had shoved his wand into his chest, he could breathe. 

Still hurt like blazes, no question. The taste of blood thick on his tongue, but utter bliss to feel his lungs suck in that most basic, and addictive of substances, air. Doyle opened his eyes.

Bodie was so close, their noses touched. Bodie’s mouth was on Doyle’s. A kiss?

“Wha--?” 

“Going to give you the kiss of life if gashing you between the ribs and sticking in a drinking straw hadn’t worked,” Bodie babbled, as if he was about to cry.

“What’re you b-banging on—“ Doyle heaved in precious oxygen between each word.

“Jungle doctoring—“ Bodie inhaled himself, wiping something off Doyle’s bottom lip.

Doyle didn’t want to look at the glistening red gore on the tip of Bodie’s fingers.

“Seen it done—in the Congo, but never had a go myself.” Bodie sat back on his knees, gazing down at Doyle. “Saved your life. Means you owe me, you do.”

“I do,” Doyle vowed. He meant every word. 

_I love you hung in the air between then, never voiced._

The medics burst into the flat.

FIN


End file.
